


Chips and Flakes

by VealChopz



Category: BoJack Horseman, Flaked, Will Arnett - Fandom
Genre: Crossover Pairings, Flaked - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 20:03:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8115643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VealChopz/pseuds/VealChopz
Summary: BoJack Horseman decides it's time to get clean.  Choosing to seclude himself in the inclusive town of Venice, California, he realizes that this already is a one horse town.  How the celebrity will deal with Chip has yet to be seen.  Can Chip and BoJack get and keep themselves sober or will their negative powers be too much?





	1. Hello, my name is BoJack

BoJack couldn't remember anything about his ride to AA. Which meant he probably shouldn't have been driving in the first place. But BoJack couldn’t get anyone to answer their phone. Let alone give him a ride. Typical. The one time he actually *wanted* to get sober, no one gave a damn. It was times like this that BoJack really did miss Sarah Lynn. She would have at least answered her phone.

That was a lie. BoJack always missed Sarah Lynn. If there was anyone who really did love him for him… and not just because of his success… it was her. But that didn't matter anymore. Sarah Lynn was dead and BoJack was on his way to AA. Or at least he hoped this weird little subsect of Los Angeles had AA. From the exterior Venice, California looked like a bunch of beach bums lost their cars and just decided to live there. Gross.

Parking his car in what he was sure was a parking space, BoJack stumbled his large, equine frame into what was a surprisingly busy room. It was surprising to see a wide variety of what BoJack could only describe as vagrant hippies and bums that somehow managed to make Todd look respectable. Their eager faces only made BoJack want to drink more. How could a place that made him want to drink help him get sober? But they were sure not to know him here and Sarah Lynn would have wanted to see him get sober. So BoJack groaned and awkwardly moved into the room that smelled of stale cigarettes and bad, burnt coffee. 

Everyone in the room seemed to have their eyes drawn to the man who was at the front of the room. He was the tannest, , grimiest, most charismatically rumpled douchebag BoJack had ever seen. And BoJack had once met James Franco. But this guy… this guy was no James Franco. There was no question that he had the same kind of devious charisma BoJack had… only this guy had a constant, tentative audience. BoJack immediately hated him. They needed to be friends. Now.

As soon as the guy in the rumpled, green blazer… which BoJack was pretty sure he had started that fad… not some sunbaked father of a hipster… opened his mouth, BoJack found his jaw growing slack as he settled into a squeaky metal chair. This guy had a voice that could sell overpriced cars. Like Will Arnett if he suddenly decided he was going to be a grown ass man. His voice was deep and sultry, almost hypnotic. BoJack felt envy burn in his gut along with the lingering vodka in his stomach. This motherfucker.

Like the rest of the alcoholics in the room, BoJack felt himself drawn in by the sad tale of death and chaos that this guy… BoJack didn't even know his name… was spinning. His story was just as tragic and just as fucked up as BoJack's. And he didn't even want to blame anyone. Just himself. Wow. That wasn't a concept BoJack had been prepared for. For once, BoJack didn't feel the need to top this guy. The defeated tone that his deep voice seemed to take called to him. Beaconed for him to share in the moment. Was this what empathy felt like? It was kind of… gross. No wonder Dianne was so crabby most of the time. BoJack really could have used a drink.

As BoJack listened, those dark eyes settled on him as the man spoke. Though he expected a hint of recognition… any sort of acknowledgement that this speaker knew who he was… BoJack didn't get one. Instead, he got a long look that almost questioned his being there. BoJack had only felt smaller in the presence of one person. And Butterscotch Horseman was dead. Shrinking into the metal chair, ignoring the groan of the metal under his horse-like weight, BoJack sat still. He didn't dare move until the room began clearing out and the man in front of him broke eye contact to smile at those who were getting ready to disperse. 

Waiting until the room was mostly empty except for a grumpy looking blonde guy who was giving him the stink eye and a few women who were so focused on the charismatic speaker they didn't even notice they were in the same room as a celebrity. Rude. It took a moment for BoJack to work up the courage to walk up to the speaker, offering his hand out as he approached in an awkward fashion that only Dianne could be proud of, BoJack tried to smile. Kind of. "Yes. I'm BoJack Horseman. From Horsin' Around. I didn't catch your name."

Instead of an acknowledgement of his celebrity status, BoJack got a firm almost domineering handshake in return and a quizzical look. How could this guy not know who he is?? Before BoJack could even ask this guy if he'd been living under a rock he got his answer along with a smug smirk and shrug. "Sorry. I don't even own a phone. But we're glad you're here, man."

Man? Who called people man anymore? Who didn't own a phone? Or a tv? Where the hell was he? There was no way this place could be real. And yet, this was exactly the kind of place BoJack had wanted to find. The blond who had been watching them with amused interest approached them and extended his hand for BoJack to take it. Trying to be better than he normally was, BoJack took his hand, giving him a look as if he was trying to figure out why he cared who he was. "I'm Dennis. This is Chip. I don't think we've seen you around here before."

So Dennis was the obvious sort. And he spoke like he and… Chip… were a singular unit. What kind of name was Chip for a human? Weird. There was no way that his name could be real. And this was coming from a horseman named BoJack. But he seemed nice enough except for the way he squeezed BoJack's hand it was like he was trying to tell him something. Like what? His smile said one of two things. Watch out for himself or watch his back… BoJack wasn't sure which one it was so he took his hand back and casually wiped it on his blazer. There was something about this Dennis that BoJack kind of liked. But maybe only in small doses. But BoJack was allowing this Dennis to do what was clearly his purpose… distract him from the main attraction. Who was watching the young women as they left with baited interest while only half listening to them speak. 

BoJack turned so he was facing Chip directly. Yeah… BoJack already didn't like this guy but if there was anything BoJack was good at it was finding the broken ones. And just looking at his tired face told BoJack he had struck dysfunctional gold. If BoJack had to guess he'd say it couldn't have been more than a few days since this beacon of sobriety had hit the bottle. Call it a gift, but BoJack knew someone being dragged by the wagon when he saw one. Maybe misery really did love company.

Apparently this Chip didn't like being the beta in a group because as soon as he noticed BoJack was sizing him up, the green blazer wearing hipster turned to face him directly, his expression hardening far faster than BoJack had anticipated. "So… BoJack… What brings you to Venice? I'm sure you're not just here to attend an AA meeting… or are you?"

Not liking the way he was being questioned, BoJack gave Chip a glower and went searching in his pockets for any of the flasks he normally carried with him. Not finding any of them, BoJack settled for a pack of cigarettes. Lighting up, BoJack made sure to blow a stream of smoke right into the smug face of the human who was giving him the urge to punch him in the face. "I needed a break from Hollywoo. And I heard if you really want to be a nobody, this is the place to do it. Am I right, Chap?"

Chip glared at him for a moment, absorbing the insult with a quirk of his eyebrow. "It's Chip." Right. Chip. Whatever. BoJack really needed a drink.


	2. What's a Stool?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BoJack is beginning to realize that he may be out of his depths.

The longer BoJack was in the company of Chip, the stronger his need for a drink became. Especially after he learned that Chip didn't drive a car. No. That bastard walked everywhere. Or road a bike. There was a very solid reason that no one had ever seen BoJack Horseman on a bike. There were such things as dignity to consider. But judging from the neighborhoods they were walking through, BoJack was fairly certain no one in Venice knew what the word Dignity meant. Everything seemed brightly colored and haphazardly artistic. Like some very lazy graffiti artist gave up halfway through painting the town.

The only thing worse than the bike was the fact that Dennis… despite appearing to be a grown ass man rode a skateboard. Todd once rode a skateboard. But as soon as he took up the job of resident loafer at BoJack's house, that shit came to an abrupt end. Or so BoJack thought. He wasn't exactly sure what Todd did when he was out of BoJack's immediate sight. The image of Todd curled up in his striped blanket on BoJack's couch that his mind conjured and the almost too amicable way Chip and Dennis appeared to always be looking at each other almost made BoJack miss Todd.

That moment vanished when Chip walked them to an impressive corner store with a stool in the window. This guy made furniture? From the looks of him, BoJack never would have guessed that this frumpy middle aged hipster actually had a discernable skill. He certainly didn't behave like he did. Any awe was incredibly short lived as Chip lead BoJack inside the cluttered store that was somehow cluttered…and almost empty… and explained that he made stools. Stools. Who made stools? BoJack had never wondered the origins of stools. He'd always just assumed they were just what happened when you left real, adult furniture alone after dark. Like end tables.

BoJack's expression must have been less than enthused or impressed because Chip immediately began a defensively well manicured explanation about how it wasn't about the stools. It was about what he was offering to the community and the people that came to him. BoJack wondered to himself if Chip was talking about the VD or the trip to the abortion clinic. Perhaps both. Stools. It was the dumbest thing BoJack had ever heard of… like any of the ideas Mr. Peanutbutter came up with on occasion. BoJack was STILL hearing about noodle strainers. And it had been months. Watching Chip, BoJack couldn't help but notice no matter how asinine anything he said was, Dennis would nod enthusiastically. Smiling as if he was so proud of the progress his friend had made. If this was progress, BoJack didn't want to know what fucked up Chip looked like. Or maybe he did. 

A vile idea burrowed into BoJack's mind, laid eggs and then those eggs hatched into evil intentions that ate the mother and took off into the world in search of new pain to inflict. Realizing what he was thinking, BoJack swallowed for a moment. Maybe this was what everyone meant by him needing help. Shrugging away the idea, BoJack cleared his throat to bring the focus back where it belonged. On him. And not some magazine with a stool in it that Chip may or may not have been pretending to look for. "Right. So. You make stools. I suppose someone has to. Is it as cool as being a famous movie star? No. But not everyone can be as cool as I am. Listen. I haven't eaten anything since breakfast since apparently a bottle of vodka doesn't count as food. Is there somewhere we can go eat? That isn't a mile away from here?"

Much to BoJack's relief, Dennis wasn't hungry. The longer BoJack spent time with Dennis, the less he liked the man. Maybe because it seemed as if Dennis was always one step away from some horrific crisis. All he needed was a match. Chip, on the other hand, seemed to let his angers and frustrations fester like a mental illness. A man after BoJack's own heart. The restaurant that Chip walked BoJack to, taking his time and politely ignoring BoJack's struggle to keep up with him without panting, was far more upscale than Venice seemed to deserve. The building was hip and trendy without appearing pretentious. How the hell did a guy like Chip get into a place like this?

Apparently… when they call you the mayor of Venice, you can go anywhere. Even if you're dressed like you've been rolling around in a dumpster… and subsequently are wearing the clothes you found in the dumpster. Maybe Princess Carolyn had been wrong this whole time about wearing clean clothes. With a moment of pure disdain, BoJack wondered why he hadn't found Venice sooner. 

Realizing he was glowering to himself and that Chip was watching him with a predator's instinct, BoJack shook himself of his thoughts and followed Chip to a low table out on what was a very nice patio. How could Chip afford this place? He made… not sold… just made stools? As Chip babbled in his deep voice about what was good on the menu… like it mattered to BoJack… the horseman sprung his trap. "So. Chip. Since you're the man with the know how. How does a man… or a horseman… get his fingers on a little sauce while he's here?"

The dark look in Chip's eye made BoJack momentarily wonder if he'd put his faith in the wrong alcoholic. Bracing for a lecture, the horseman almost flinched as Chip leaned forward, his eyes intense and dark. "If you really want to know the secret to my success, you'll come home with me. But if you tell anyone, I will ruin you."

Normally threats did very little to concern BoJack. But there was something about the venom and the dark look in Chip's eye that told BoJack that he was serious. Chip really would ruin BoJack and there would be no coming back. Nearly swallowing his tongue, BoJack tried to smile uncomfortably and nodded. "I saw nothing and heard nothing."


End file.
